A new baby about to be born...

Being a woman has some great advantages some days. I occasionally get doors opened for me, I can usually wheedle my way into having some guy (even a stranger) carry heavy boxes to my car, and I get all the pretty jewelry. :)

What's also neat, at least today, is ruminating over the fact that my gender is the one that gets to carry a child. I think of those verses in Psalms where we are knit together in our mother's womb...and as a writer I find a great parallel to my novels.

Congratulations on your 8-pound bouncing baby novel. Now to nurse...the paper cuts.

First, let's play with that verb. Knitting. I've crocheted for over 22 years (yeah, I'm old) and while it's a bit different than knitting, the symbolism still works. A single strand of thread is twisted, looped, and pulled, over and over again, until a cloth emerges. Depending on how you loop it, where you return to a previously-designed spot, and how loosely you hold the thread, you could end up with a warm scarf, a delicate lace doily, or even a thick blanket big enough to carpet your living room.

Or a rug to cover London, for my British readers.

My one foray into knitting revealed how difficult it is to keep all those loops on those needles at one time...and how consistency is what pays off in the end. My enduring practice with crochet has taught me just how creative you can be with the process.

Although there really should be limits to said creativity.

When writing, you truly are knitting (or crocheting) strands of thought together into a cohesive whole. You have characters, plot lines, a theme (or two), some suspense, perhaps a couple of red herrings, some bad guys, and lots of witty word plays (because writers just can't help themselves). We type in dialogue, rework scenes, play around with time (despite H.G. Well's good warnings), and create a beautiful piece of work out of several disjointed pieces of potential. I suppose that the arts give us as close of a glimpse as possible of what God must have felt like when He created everything--although He had no limits and is completely perfect.

Now let's move on to the idea of giving birth. All mothers may cringe in unison at this point.

To be fair, we'll show Yao Ming in the infamous position. Push, man, push!

Writing, revising, and basically getting a novel ready for publication is all about birthing. There are months of waiting for this child to arrive, whether it be to finally appear on my word processing screen or for the notice from the publishing company that they actually aren't rejecting me. Those months are filled with moments where you couldn't be happier about the new life emerging under your fingertips and moments where you can't wait for this to be over (and claim the whole process is overrated while you throw up for the fifth time that morning). They say that all the pain, drama, struggles, and long waits are forgotten as you hold that precious newborn fresh from the printing presses, your name lovingly scrolled across the cover. I haven't gotten to that point, mostly because my gestation period seems to be more like an African elephant than the average human female, but I'll smile and accept the experiences of others despite knowing that every person's journey is unique, special, and miraculous.

What's really interesting about a writer's gestation, though, is that not only are we almost always carrying mutiples, they tend to be born at different times. I'm just about fully dialated with A Daughter's Heart, ready to push that child into the world in just a month or so, but during the wait I've apparently gotten pregnant again. There's a new novel starting to be knitted together, weaving in more of my own experiences with a lot more research, personality psychology, and even darker themes than my first book. Welcome to conception, Secret Identity, the first of a trilogy exploring the lives of Megan, Areli, and Zivah--three women living in the heart of the Midwest with dangerous foes circling close. Want a peek at my little embryos? (Yes, I know this analogy has long since devolved into creepiness, but deal with it. I like it. :) )



A family killed, a terrorist bomb, a fragile life.
Tragedy has arrived in Clarkston.

Secret Identity.
Megan should be dead. Her whole family is instead.

A trip to visit her younger sister in college ends in an unspeakable tragedy, leaving the young nanny instantly alone. As Megan tries to piece together the lives of the people she should know the best, she stumbles across puzzling secrets powerful enough to kill. Will finding the answers bring her peace—or a matching gravestone?


Secret Betrayal.
Her latest date bombed. Literally.

Areli is the definitive party girl in Tel Aviv, ignoring the war in favor of the next good time. When her search for the ultimate rush lands her in the middle of a Hamas terrorist plot, she runs to Megan’s home in the U.S. Here she learns that the consequences for sin really are death—although with her younger sister Zivah being held hostage, she may not be the only one paying with her life.


Secret Fear.
There are some things she can’t hide from forever.

When Zivah discovers that scars aren’t the only thing she was left with from her harrowing experience with Hamas, she agrees to return to the U.S. and the safety of her old hometown. Clarkston isn't what she remembered, though, and a series of dramatic crimes push her and the town to the edge. As deadlines approach, Zivah must make decisions that will affect the future of this community, an innocent child, and her soul forever.

And we end with Little One swaddled in my only knitted project to date. Cue "awwww" to cover the weird sensations of being far too involved in my reproductive post.

Risky Behavior

Getting a tattoo from a "beginner." Texting while driving, irregardless of age (in Missouri, it's only illegal if you are under 21). Bungee jumping with your dentures in. We could make a list stretch on for miles over risky things we do, but probably one of the riskiest ones would be far down on the list despite it being one that we humans do every day. Talking to other people.

Sure, there are obvious ways our words can get us in trouble. Telling a cop he should spend less time chasing our car and instead chase donuts. Sassing back to a teacher when she asks that we stop pulling our classmate's hair. Using certain derogatory words around people of other ethnic/racial groups. From the time we were children (and for some of us late-bloomers, teenagers), we have learned that you just don't say certain things. For the most part, this is good--respect is such a rare commodity these days (and yes, I'm starting to sound like my grandparents already and I'm still in my twenties). In some cases, though, not saying something is more harmful than we could ever imagine.

Although I have gotten better at constructively criticizing those around me when I need to, I recently discovered that this is a skill that still needs work. Case and point? My very serious romantic relationship with a guy I'll name "Bob." I haven't been that honest with him lately, mostly because I'm still figuring out when I need to say something and when I need to keep quiet. To be safe, I've been keeping quiet a lot...and that led to a repressive emotional blowout full of sobbing and a chucked Kleenex box (to my credit, I was alone in the room at the time and I just threw it at the tabletop). It was a lot of little things, really, things that didn't really bother me that much. Added all together, they created feelings of resentment, disappointment, pain, and fear. I knew I was feeling insecure, and was able to share that with Bob, but I didn't understand why, especially when I had conquered most of my past ghosts.

The big answer I finally figured out with the help of two wise married women? I wasn't getting some of my needs met, mostly because I hadn't told him about them. I could figure out his needs really easily without being asked (hot meals, clean[ish] house, cuddle time on the couch, a listening ear, etc.) and even then I would keep asking and discover more things I could do to make him feel secure and loved. My needs weren't so simple to tease out, and even when he did ask, I wasn't good at revealing them. Part of it was due to fear that I would be selfish to ask for things/actions/services in return, that he wouldn't be able to or want to provide those things, or that I would be too much of a "bother" or considered a "high-maintenance woman." Another part of my silence was due to literally not knowing how to word the requests. I know, I'm a writer, an English professor, and I can't figure out how to use words effectively. Insert *facepalm* here.



By trying to avoid hurting his feelings and protecting myself from possible rejection, I turned myself into ticking time bomb of emotions. I kept up this facade of "I'm okay, I can take care of myself, no need to worry about me, just let me serve you and I'll be fine..." for the most part, but found myself eventually crying nearly every time I was with him. Insecurity bombarded me with thoughts of how he didn't really care, he was going to get tired of me and my drama, he wouldn't be able to deal with my requests, or (really ugly moment here) he was just going to use me and throw me away like others have done in the past. Yes, projecting past experiences onto Bob didn't help, but one of the core reasons was that I felt neglected and negated in some respects. Whose fault was that? Mine.

I needed to stop feeling guilty asking for things, especially the small things. No matter how tired, grumpy, irritated, or sick he is, Bob loves me and wants to take care of me. He needs to take care of my needs, to provide for me just as I need to be needed by him. I'm not his slave and I need to stop acting like it--especially as he NEVER asked me to be that!

Bob's reaction to this situation? Well, it was best summed up during a conversation where I tentatively (read: tiny little-girl voice) said, "So it's ok if I ask for that?"

"Well, of course! What, is this that new-age women's lib crap where you have no needs and are all self-sufficient?"

A little crass, but the point is valid. We, as women AND men, are NOT self-sufficient. Whether we realize it or not, we desperately need God and, second to Him, each other. If not, why were those the two commandments Jesus gave us? We are to love God and love one another. That means both give and take.

Let me be busy (or else I'll eat cake)

I was working away in the kitchen of a friend's house as she, her husband, and her children bustled about to prepare for a birthday party for the eldest girl. I had arrived a little later than planned (mostly due to *lots* of emergency responders on the highway--welcome to Fourth of July mayhem), but had instantly gotten to the business of stringing decorations, taping streamers, and coaxing sheet cakes out of uncooperative glass pans. When the mother was attacked by a wasp, I shooed her and her children inside while I armed myself with Raid and went on the offensive (anyone who knows me knows that my instinct is to run, scream bloody murder, and hide in the bathroom when stinging insects are around).

This is not a good picture of a wasp. This is a ruined picture of a flower. *shudders*

The cakes were just about finished with my haphazard decorating skills when the first party guests arrived. Before long, the house and yard were full of kids and friends, of whom I knew about half pretty well.

Instead of letting things fall to someone else to finish, though, and beginning my socializing, I stayed in the kitchen. It was easy to justify for a little while. There was a pile of tropical fruits to cut up and arrange. Counters needed to be wiped down. There were my dirty prep dishes to wash--I can't make a mess and "leave it" for someone else to clean when I'm a guest in someone else's home. A hundred little details needed my attention and I stayed busy in the small area of the kitchen. The father of the birthday girl thanked me nearly every time he passed by, although the last time he just muttered, "You work too hard, girl." I just smiled and rinsed off a serving tray.

I do love to cook and bake. Preparing food for people makes me overflow with joy, and while I don't always enjoy cleaning, I don't mind it most of the time; periodically I even get a little anxious when I see something messy and know I could help clean it up (funny how that only occasionally kicks in at my own house). I love to serve people, help them with their needs, and make their lives better. Easing the strong vibrations of stress and tension that flowed from the parents before the party made me feel helpful, important, and wanted. I didn't need anything more than the look of relief and sincere appreciation in the mother's eyes as she looked at the finished projects over a bandaged finger and her calmed-down baby. It was fun for me to help design decorations and help corral children. It was powerful being the one who could step in, get the important work done, and be the calm and serene one in the midst of mini-crises (especially because if this had been my party, I would have been freaking out, too). I kept very busy...until everything was done.

The bad thing about a hefty to-do list for an event is that eventually it will be completed. I stood by the sink of clean dishes, eying the fully-stocked table of food, and thought "Well, now what?" Most people would have then thrust into the party, talking with others, finally grabbing some food for themselves, and generally have a great time. I felt awkward and froze. My safety net was the kitchen. Suddenly I didn't know how to talk to people. Being rejected hadn't been an issue when I was fumbling my way through slicing a watermelon.

My results with the stubborn melon and an oversized knife were a bit prettier, but this is so much more impressive on the entertainment factor.

After thirty minutes of standing around and pretending I had things to do, I eventually maneuvered myself to a place where I could gracefully exit. Guilt twanged a bit in my core (or was that hunger? Besides a few chunks of pineapple, I hadn't bothered to eat--too busy, other people wanted that food, etc.) as my car rolled away, the first to leave. I knew that I wasn't likely to get into a confrontation with anyone. From what I had learned over the past five months, I was surrounded by loving people. As soon as my usefulness was over, though, I felt every bit of the outsider, the "newbie" interloper who just doesn't fit in. I'm too young or old, smart or ignorant, liberal or conservative. A voice in the back of my mind pointed out just how much I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb...and eventually people tire of the offensive element and push/cut it out. I knew it was Satan whispering these lies to me. My faith is stronger than it has ever been. I knew better. I still ran.

You don't have to be a Carrol fan to realize that very memorable characters suddenly taking off at top speed tends to be noticeable, and a bit of a drag.

I can list a whole host of great reasons why I felt like this. I can justify every reaction, blame my misgivings on an ugly past that rears its head more than a bucking bronco. It's not going to change my behavior, my feelings, or my fears the next time I accept an invitation to a party or assist during a church event. The problem is deeper than just understanding the why behind it. I have to fight that reason. I have to change. I have to take more risks and be vulnerable again, no matter how many times I get hurt.

Funny--I suddenly feel too exhausted to move.

Timing

I had come in to the college an hour before I had to teach. After weaving my way through the empty student computer lab, I walked the couple yards to the employee work room where I usually held my office hours. I left the door open in my haste to get to work--I hadn't refreshed my memory on the story I had assigned in my American Literature course, and while I could have bumbled my way through well enough, I wanted to be well-prepared. Forty minutes passed and I was only 3/4 done with the in-depth analysis. A loud conversation drifted in through the room and my eyes stilled on the page. The students' voices were instantly familiar. One was quite loud, a girl lamenting to a guy about the email she had received a few days earlier.

"...and then she replies and says, 'Well, there are a few techniques I can show you, but it would be better if we could go over it in person.' Like that was going to help me, and now I'm completely lost and have no clue what to do."

The snippet confirmed exactly who the girl was--a student in my morning class...and she was talking about me. She had missed the previous class, and while she had claimed in the email to have been ill, I was told by one of her friends that she hadn't finished her paper and had elected not to come to class because of it (I still give the student the benefit of the doubt, but the other story rang true with the girl's personality). Had she come, she would have realized that all of her classmates were struggling and I spent the entire class period helping them revise and strengthen their papers--using techniques that worked much better for an in-person demonstration. To be honest, I could have described the methods to the girl in the e-mail, but I wanted to work with her one-on-one and encouraged her in the e-mail to make an appointment when she could for us to go over the material. She hadn't.

Leaving my prep work behind, I walked to the doorway, leaned against the doorjamb, and looked at the young woman. "Well, if you want, I can help you right now." Both the girl and the male classmate looked up with the expected expression.

Even plastic and acrylic can cry out, "Uh-oh."

The smile on my face had some underlying cheekiness to it, although I schooled my features to be as professional as possible. I had busted them, vividly proving the old addage that people should be careful what they say--someone could be listening. Since I knew I had done nothing wrong or inappropriate, I was more than willing to tease the young students. After all, I could have responded very negatively, and there was certainly some tension in the room. The male student transitioned from shock into amusement after ascertaining that I was not upset. The young woman remained angry and frustrated.

Heloise's Hint: back away slowly and offer chocolate/coffee/vice of choice.

She began ranting, still loud and angry, about how she didn't "get any of this stuff" and she was only in the class for financial aid purposes. She wanted to drop the class and it was "too hard to understand the reading." She burst into tears. I sat down next to her, my mood instantly changing. The subtext was screaming into my mind as though her thoughts came equipped with a megaphone. I'm stupid. I can't understand this. I never will. No one will help me. I'm beyond help. I feel trapped.

The other students in the room silently turned back to their computers or left the room, letting her have the modicum of privacy available in the public lab. I knew asking her to come to the office wasn't a move that she would respond well to, so I let her express her fears and frustration through the tears and occasional rants against the class. As she spoke, my mind flitted to a memory of a twenty-year-old woman who had stood before an older male professor. Her tears blocked all but the fuzziest appearance of the man as she admitted her inability to understand the grammatical structures he had talked about for a week. She felt stupid, alone, and trapped. Especially stupid. Although flabbergasted at the emotional response, the professor kindly gave up part of his lunch hour and stood in the empty classroom, demonstrating point-by-point the essence of a copula and antecedents, eventually stumbling across different ways of explanation so the young woman could finally grasp onto the definitions. I've never forgotten those concepts since that day.

All but ignoring the other students in the room, I sat by her side and waited until the emotional malestrom ebbed. I handed her a tissue, then reassured her that literary criticism was often hard to understand but she could do it. We discovered that a great deal of her problem was reading comprehension and worked together to decipher a 19th century essay. The time ticked past the point that I was to begin class, but I ignored the clock. At the moment, I had more important things to do.

When it comes to priorities, sometimes we just gotta smash the critters.

As a professor, it was my responsibility to start class on time--I had policies on tardiness for my students. If this had been just a week later, my boss would have been also in attendance for my semester evaluations. I was supposed to do something, and I chose not to. I knew that the ten or fifteen minutes it would take to finish encouraging this young woman back onto a positive track would not be the end of the world for the rest of my students. The young man she had spoken to would surely explain the situation, so no one would leave. They were all adults and perfectly capable of starting the discussion without me--or at least entertaining themselves (they chose the latter. Big surprise.). There was no way I would leave until I knew she was able to work on the paper on her own again--even if it meant she would miss the first half of class in order to have that precious time to do so.

Hours later, I started thinking about Jesus' parable about the lost sheep.

In this depiction, the sheep's black. Think about that (and not so much that Jesus oddly resembles Tom Cruise here).

Jesus said (in Luke 15:3-7, if you want to look it up) that he would leave the 99 to find the one lost lamb. I remember thinking when I first heard this story that it didn't quite make sense. Shouldn't he be worried about the big flock, too? Who's going to watch over them while Jesus goes looking for the single lost lamb? Is one lamb really worth the danger he could be putting the others in?

The point of the story isn't about the 99, though. They're fine, they're safe, and they can take care of themselves for the time being (note that He said He left them to look for the other lamb, not for infinity--this isn't abandonment but a shift in priorities; also, since God is omnipresent, He never *really* leaves...but that's a blog for another day.). Jesus is saying that He will pursue those who are lost and alone, afraid and frustrated. For a moment, in a very small way, I ministered to that student in a way that God ministered to me. By taking the time to really care, listen, and invest in her progress, I showed that she was important to me and I was willing to put the others, who were prepared, on hold in order to catch her up.

I'm not saying that "the greater good" isn't a good policy or that I should always pause my teaching for a single straggler (that is also what one-on-one conferences are for). I can't realistically afford to do this every single class period. I can, however, give her enough hope and faith in herself and in my attention to her that she can succeed even in an American Literature course. Maybe this will transfer to the rest of her college classes and, perhaps, to her life in general. Only God knows how far the ripples of this moment will reach in the pond of her life and in the lives of my other students. My prayer is that it will spread good to all involved...and lend a little sanity to an insane world.

The Dandelion's Manifesto

Some say I'm a downright pest--
Poking my stalk in among the best,
Bouncing around on my own personal breeze,
Enjoying my days as if they were in ease,
Smiling and laughing though the rain will only drown
And the brilliant sun scorches everything brown.
Nothing's going to keep me down.

My exuberant petals spring from the earth
As if I was gifted Slinkies at birth
To propel me to heights I should never reach
'Cause the joy of my soul is a favorite fluid to leech.

I ruin perfect rows of perfectly planned pansies and petunias,
Purple poppies and potatoes and peas that go right through ya.
Where an exact order of beauty is established through selection and mutation,
I creep into the ranks, a new variable for computation.

My stalk's too fat, my leaves curl the wrong way,
My scent's intolerable, my roots have gone gray.
I ruin everything just by existing,
My rights and my desires--everyone's nixing.

Since I am not always self-sustaining and "properly" entertaining,
economical and ecological
with a smile maniacal
as I recite alphabetical
what is right and good and Cosmo-certified to work in 30 days or your money back
Not that it'll get you back on track
With the credit cards
And manicured yards
Botox injections and
Heart infections
Revealing the disease
If you please
Is not curable by the pill
Or by giving "reality" audiences a thrill
Or through donating large sums to charity
(As though dollars ever buy us clarity).

It's healed through tears,
Fighting constant fears,
Ignoring hateful leers,
Stubbornly insisting, "I'm HERE!"
And nothing's gonna keep me down.

So bring on the Weed-B-Gone,
Pour it out from dusk 'til dawn,
Rip up my supports deep in the earth,
Declare my agony's result is stillbirth,
Refuse to allow me to live or exist
As you get high on your powerful twist
Of what you claim is "the way it's gotta be--"
And there is utterly no reason for me
To breathe
To live
To smile
To give

'Cause my life is a hint of something soul-saving sweet,
But with your lack of faith, it'll be a bitter-tasting treat.
My God-given, spirit-pleasin' remedy
Is just what our P.C. world needs:
A little faith, hope, and love,
Truth without the kid gloves,
The kind of power that can conquer America's permanent frown,
Because you can't keep an agape weed like me down.

Further Adventures at Wal-Mart...as it's the most populated area in town...

Every year my father inflates a 8-foot swimming pool, parks it in the backyard, and then overchlorinates it to the point where only he is brave enough to sit in the water that decimates bug life faster than a Tim-Taylor-superpowered-bugzapper (since I used to invest so much in dying/highlighting my hair, I wasn't insane enough to ruin my hairdresser's expensive work for just five minutes of buoyancy). Every year he keeps "forgetting" to take it down...until really late in the season where the water's starting to freeze on top. Between the chemicals and the ice, let's just say that these pools didn't last more than a couple years around our house. Last year's entry into the wild world of Sackville looked to have survived the winter...until Dad started to fill it and found a huge, gaping hole in the bottom. He then decided, due to financial issues, to 86 his swimming plans this year. I, being the good daughter with a savings account (love you, Sis!), decided to spoil him for Father's Day and buy him a replacement pool. Besides, I'm giving up coloring my hair and figure the bleach will just help me return to my natural color faster. :)

Fun for every family unafraid of sanitizing their genes...and the resulting cancer outbreaks

So I trek into Wal-Mart, select the new pool, hoist it through the checkout, and cart it to my car. It's when I'm attempting to put this very ungainly, very heavy box into my backseat that I find major conflict. This box is heavier than I remember it being. It's also getting consistently caught on the edge of the cart, which is continuously wheeling away from my car thanks to a sloped parking lot. Two tries only succeed in making my lower back ache, my shoulder pop, and nearly landing me in a heap on the ground as I attempt to control too many moving objects at once. It is at the moment that I'm glaring at this now obnoxious present when I hear laughter. It's not very loud, not overwhelming, but just the soft chuckles of someone observing what must look like the equivalent of an uncoordinated penguin troop performing Swan Lake.

It's only cute if you're three years old and still look good in a leotard.

Parked in the row behind me is a big red SUV...with a hefty-looking 40+ year-old man in the driver's seat. Now, normally I'd just ignore him, or at the most, smile embarrassedly while trying for a third time to wrangle the plastic pool of doom. This time, however, I've had a great time at music practice. I've eaten a fair amount of sugar. I'm high on life. I open my mouth.

"Well, if you're going to get such a kick out of this free show, the least you could do is come over here and help me!" My teasing remark, sassy and full of enough sweetness to counteract the sarcasm, works like a charm. The gentleman exits his vehicle, showing off his lovely work-roughed jeans and faded t-shirt, and saunters over to my car. He puts one strong hand on the edge of the cart and anchors it against the wheel well. "Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there."

Time out.

I'm sorry, but did my audience, obviously much bigger and stronger and very MALE, just take the easy job in this ordeal? I mean, I know our current world culture has more of a humorous attitude towards chivalry.

See? Soldiers know how to treat a lady (at least I'm assuming that's a lady).

I know that even simple chivalric manners, like opening car doors, seems to be a thing of the past (although I was delighted to find that there are guys out there still insisting on this little treat...and they're forgiving when our decades-old habit of having to open our own car doors kicks in before they can circle the car).

The manners and his suit have become "old-fashioned," but her hairstyle has come back into fashion at least three times.

Despite this, the current situation was obviously one in which the correct thing was not being done. Yes, I am technically strong enough to haul the box in my backseat (I've carried much heavier things before with few problems) and the problem is more of one of logistics and not strength. Still, if guys in China are completely comfortable--and often insist upon--carrying their girl's purse...

My purse, coincidentally, is about 2/3 the weight of the pool most days... (My school packback has reached 100 pounds before...and you wonder why I go monthly to a chiropractor).

...then the chivalry isn't about doing what we can't do. I can open my own door. It's just nice to have someone to help me, to take care of me, to show me a little extra respect and help when it's appropriate (grabbing a girl's puse without permission is known as mugging--not the thing to do).

So my response to Mr. Helpful? Playful banter, of course, full of smiles and sassy expressions. :)

Mr. Helpful: Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there.
Me: Um, no, I will hold 'er steady and you will haul the pool in there.
Mr. Helpful: (chuckles) But you're a strong young'un!
Me: But you're the guy LAUGHING AT ME.

((Still chuckling, Mr. Helpful easily hoists the pool into my backseat and gently closes the door. Mrs. Helpful just happens to approach at this moment, her shopping cart overflowing with bagged purchases.))

Mrs. Helpful: I thought you were going to stay in the car...?
Mr. Helpful: She made me come help her load her car after she caught me laughing at her.
Mrs. Helpful: (big smile at me) Well, then, you can get your butt over here and load up our car.
Mr. Helpful: I knew I shouldn't have laughed...

So, lessons for today:
1. Park in the flat section of the lot.
2. Teasing others can earn you extra (home)work.
3. A little Southern accent and a big smile still charms the opposite sex.